


Eet

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Angels, Car Accidents, Childhood Friends, Demons, Fate, Fluff, Gen, Inspired by Music, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Romance, Theft, Tragedy, alternate endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:03:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's just there, always there, swooping in and saving Dean's ass in the most unexpected ways. He doesn't even know his name.</p><p>He has to know his name.</p><p>Three endings to choose from: fluff, tragedy, and a plot twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Eet by Regina Spektor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CEXk-OcL5-Q)

Dean doesn’t even know his name, but there’s this overwhelming deja vu to the man’s simple presence, like Dean’s known him his entire life. The cliche is replaced with shock realizing he _has_ : the rabbit-fur hair, the age in his eyes that doesn’t belong on his face, from the awkward knot of his tie to a posture he’s only ever seen on veterans.

Like he’s been repressing more than childhood abuse all this time, all the memories are pouring out, all the things his father taught him not to feel. Everything.

Dean jaywalks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He stares through the glass, and licks his lip. Bread is filling, but he can’t fit it under his jacket, while the packaging for the beef jerky makes too much noise. Nuts, he thinks, they have protein. Sammy needs protein.

He breathes, and walks in. He finds the nuts, is torn for a while between salted and unsalted, decides on honey roasted because he’s not paying for it. He reaches for the package.

“I’m allergic to nuts.”

Dean nearly knocks over one of the rows of shelves. He swallows, and glares at the boy interrupting him.

He looks about Dean’s age, but scrawny, and paler. His hair’s about as long as Sam’s, in a much darker colour. It makes his eyes stand out. “S-so?”

The boy looks down at his hands; he’s holding a package of trail mix “I’m allergic to nuts.”

“Then why did you buy it, dummy?”

“My foster father did. I’m supposed to exchange it for something I want. Because I’m allergic.”

“You said that.” the Winchester replies, a touch annoyed.

He’s still staring down at the bag, then up at Dean. “I still feel sick from the fast food a few hours ago.”

“Then get a ginger ale or somethin’, I don’t know.”

Bright blue flicks down to his small hands once more. He holds out the bag with one hand. “Do you like nuts?”

Dean eyes the trail mix, and his stomach grumbles. It’s the kind with M&Ms. He takes the bag, and holds it gently. “Hey, than-”

The boy’s already turned to run, and he’s surprised there’s no click to those shoes. Just the rush of air as the automatic door opens for him.

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Dean doesn’t really think about anything as he stares down at his hands in his lap. He knows the vice principals’ eyeing him, but he doesn’t look. He’s got too much on his mind to care about what the administrators think of him. He’ll only be in this dump of a town for a day or two more, besides. A fight. So what? The jock has a few bruises; Dean didn’t even break any of his bones. He doesn’t get why it’s such a big deal.

“Wait here.” the administrator says.

“What have I _been_ doing?” Dean snarks. The vice narrows her eyes, but doesn’t say anything further as she rounds the corner.

The teen cracks his neck, and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He feels something there, and horror falls on his face.

He forgot to take the folding knife out of his pocket. When they search him, he’s fucked- fucked!- Dad will kill him, kill him or leave him, maybe both, probably both, he doesn’t know which is worse, he’s fucked fucked fucked fuck...

“Are you having a panic attack?”

Dean raises a hand to wipe at his eye. He finds it shaking. “Wh-what? No.”

“Shortness of breath, trembling, look of terror.” He grabs Dean’s wrist, and holds two fingers there. Black hair falls over his eyes. “Racing heart.”

The Winchester wrenches his wrist away. “I’m fine, okay!?”

He stands up straight, and blinks. “Your voice is cracking.”

“I’m fifteen, of course it is!” He breaks an octave there.

The other’s head tilts. “Yes, I suppose that explains it. Forgive me; we’re learning about anxiety disorders in Psychology.”

Dean swallows. He’s having trouble focusing on what the kid’s saying. He holds very tightly to the folding knife.

“Are we acquaintances?” he asks. Dean pulls his elbow in as the boy sits next to him. His face is a little older, more like what it used to be than Dean’s is by now.

“You gave me trail mix.”

He nods. “I did. Did you enjoy it?”

“I didn’t eat it.” Before the boy- probably a teen, but he doesn’t look it yet- can be sad, he amends, “My brother did.”

“Ah. I’m glad someone enjoyed it.”

“Mr. Burns will see you, now.”

His heart sinks again. He’s still clutching the knife. He lets go and takes his hand out of his pocket to keep from looking suspicious. He shouldn’t have been socializing; the job comes first, and he should have been figuring out where to hide the knife. He’s fucked.

Dean looks between them, nods a farewell as he bites his lip, and stands, walking slowly towards the open door.

Someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns. The other student is holding something to him, like at the gas station. It’s a cheap Dixon pencil. There’s a split in the wood, and the point’s broken off. “You dropped this.”

“No I didn’t.”

He blinks, but doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. “My mistake.” He heads to the secretarial desk, and steps behind it, and making a detour before returning to the file cabinet. He drops the pencil in the trashcan.

Shaking and sweating, Dean takes off his jacket when he’s asked. The principal turns the pockets inside out. There’s nothing in them.

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Dean called it a regular salt-and-burn; Sam said it was a Woman in White. Didn’t changed how you killed it, it didn’t matter to him. John got caught up fighting the thing, while the boys raced to the graveyard to kill it. Kill it they did.

The problem was, now there was a nineteen-year-old felon and a fifteen-year-old with a few misdemeanors no one had found out about yet standing over an open grave they’d made into a fire pit. Dad was on the other side of town. With the car.

Sam wanted to get out of there as soon as possible (Dean didn’t know why he was so much more worried; he was still a minor) while the older brother insisted they sticked to orders, and Dad would pick them up. Sam was “distancing himself from the scene of the crime” (sulking) on the other side of the mausoleum, now. Dean kicks a pine cone around, trying not to think. He picks it up, misses a punt, and throws it instead, bouncing off an angel’s wing where it presides over a grave. He fumbles for his flashlight when something moves out from behind it.

It looks human- male- but he’s shielding his eyes from the light, so Dean can’t be sure. There’s a book dangling from the hand by his side, and _who the fuck sits in a graveyard at two in the fucking morning and **reads**?_ Lowering his hand from his face and blinking against the light, the Winchester finds he knows exactly who. “...What the fuck are you doing here?”

He has one eye squeezed shut, the other only a fleck of blue glinting between dark lashes close enough to overlap. “Is this an interrogation?”

His voice has dropped since the last time Dean saw him- four years, has it been? He remembers himself, and clicks the light off. “Sorry. Wasn’t really expecting to see anyone out here, you know?”

“I come here often. It’s serene.”

Swallowing, Dean nods. There’s a quiet breeze- and a fire crackling not far. “Do you?” the man continues.

“Huh?”

“Do you come here often?”

Dean grins, and chuckles at the cliche of it. The other just tilts his head in owlish confusion. “Haha, uh, no. First time, actually.”

“I see.” he says in a tone that implies the topic is exhausted. He walks deliberately to Dean, in a measured gate, his chin level to the uneven ground. He doesn’t stop where Dean expects him to, and he tenses as the man- teen, young adult, they’re both in that weird point in maturity when what to call them is different for everyone- crowds into his personal space. He fishes something out of his pocket and holds it between them; Winchester nearly has to bump their foreheads just to angle his face to see it.

His knife.

He wraps his hand around it, the side of his thumb brushing the other’s forefinger. There’s a moment where they stand just like that.

Then the car horn sounds.

Dean jumps up, shoves the knife in his pocket, and blurts an “I’ve got to go,” before he’s off to grab his brother. He regrets not getting his name. He regrets not saying a proper goodbye.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Three hot dogs, a bag of Combos, a rice krispie treat, a bottle of coke, a six pack of beer, and on a whim, a bag of trail mix. Dean doesn’t even like trail mix that much, but he doesn’t see a single serving of pie in this gas station, and he’s getting sick of jerky. This bag has pretzels and M&Ms. He sets everything on the counter and fishes in his wallet for a credit card and ID (neither of which are in his actual name, but it’s his real age, at long last).

“Will that be all?”

He freezes, and looks slowly up. His eyes drag up the uniform vest, over a pale throat and strong jaw, and land on blue eyes with a weight to them he doubts even he could carry alone. “You’ve got to be jerking me.”

He blinks. “Am I being impolite?”

Dean leans on the counter. “Are you fuckin’ stalking me?”

“I’ve lived here for two years; you’re the one in perpetual travel.”

“This is impossible.”

“No, statistically improbable, but so is winning the lottery, and I sold the winning ticket under a month ago.”

Dean stares at him witheringly. “This is the most ridiculous thing that’s ever happened to me, and I deal with some _weird_ shit.”

The man blinks. “I don’t doubt it. May I see your ID?”

“Yeah, yeah sure.” He hurries, digging it out, along with a credit card.

The cashier takes a moment to compare his face to the picture. He sets it down as he bags up the purchases and Dean runs the card. He finishes, stuffs the card away, and takes the bag in one hand. The man peels his fake ID off the counter and holds it out. Dean grasps the other end. Neither of them let go.

“I never told you... thanks. I owe you a lot.”

“I’m allergic to nuts and I pickpocketed a weapon from you.”

“How’d you know I had it, anyway?”

He tilts his head. “You were irrationally nervous, and continually flexed only your right fist.”

Dean huffs. “That obvious, huh?” There’s another customer behind him. They’re still holding his identification.

“Only to me.”

In extended eye contact, Winchester wets his lips. They don’t speak. The woman behind him clears her throat.

Then the car horn sounds.

Dean breathes through his mouth, and tugs the card out of the other’s grasp. He slides it back in his wallet. “Still. Thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

Dean lifts the bag from the counter and shifts uncomfortably. The horn goes off again; he really _really_ shouldn’t dawdle. “Bye, I guess.” he says, and pushes the door open.

“Goodbye, Dean.”

They’re a mile down the road by the time he realizes he still hasn’t asked his name. Four, when he checks the name on his ID.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLD, DEAR READER!
> 
> Ahead of you lies a great decision.  
> Ending A: Romance is a smattering of courtship, and a happy ending for all.  
> Ending B: Tragedy involves major character death, and a very unhappy ending for all.  
> Ending C: Pain is a plot twist that'll leave you screaming and sobbing, and a very unhappy ending. For Dean.


	2. Ending A: Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending A: Romance. A smattering of courtship, and a happy ending for all.

It’s a miracle he’s seeing him again: _here_ , in some middle-of-nowhere town different from the other middle-of-nowhere towns he’s seen him in before, on the way to California to see his little brother for the first time in years, to find his dad, he’s finding _him_ again. He’s been calling out since the other side of the street, the one-lane highway that runs straight through the town, “Hey!” -but only now does he register. He _has_ to know his name. He dodges a car on the way across, and almost trips on the curb.

Unphased, the man with the old eyes and the soldier stance turns to him. “Hello, Dean.”

“Your name,” he demands, “I need to know your name.”

A blink. “Castiel.”

He says it with an alphabet he knows, pronunciations he has never heard in any accent, and chants it in his head, _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel..._ “Castiel.” he voices, and his tongue doesn’t hold the word like Castiel’s does. He needs practice. “Castiel, Castiel, _Castiel_.”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“ _Castiel_.” he says again. He’s so glad he doesn’t have a name like Dick or Jimmy.

“Do you need something further?”

“Don’t you think,” he starts, and there’s an inflection he’s not used to hearing in himself, something Dad will hate, but he’s alone now, “it’s weird how we keep finding each other?”

“Statistically improbable, but such improbabilities are so numerous the only oddity is which one we’ve happened upon currently.”

“I don’t know, man. Do you believe in fate?”

“No.”

With a sigh, Dean says, “Me either.” He bites his lip as he looks around. He was here to grab a quick meal, which he’s glad he hasn’t done yet. “You had lunch yet?”

“No.”

“Know anywhere good? I’m not from around here.”

Castiel tilts his head, and it takes Dean a moment to understand it’s an indication of direction and not confusion. He smiles.

 


	3. Ending B: Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ending B: Tragedy. Major character death, and an unhappy ending for all.

It’s a miracle he’s seeing him again: _here_ , in some middle-of-nowhere town different from the other middle-of-nowhere towns he’s seen him in before, on the way to California to see his little brother for the first time in years, to find his dad, he’s finding _him_ again. He’s been calling out since the other side of the street, the one-lane highway that runs straight through the town, “Hey!” -but only now does he register. He _has_ to know his name.

He doesn’t see the car coming. The other man does.

He’s got one hand up, waving, and it’s the other one running towards him now, and there’s fear on his face, and confusion on Dean’s, like they switched defaults. He’s stronger than he looks, never quite put on the weight, but muscle, has to be, because he’s driving a shoulder into Dean’s chest, throwing him to the ground.

Dean grew up in reality; he knows that stabbing someone isn’t as clean as it is on TV, and shooting something in the face isn’t a guarantee it’s dead. Car accidents are a lot more visceral in real life as well, it seems. The coupe doesn’t skid to a stop _just_ close enough to make contact, sending him flying- it runs him right over. There’s no screeching brakes and horrible twisting metal sound. Tires squealing. Crack of bones breaking (he knows this one well). Thud.

He’s staring, but he’s not _seeing_ , this isn’t happening, isn’t happening...

“Oh my God!” a woman shrieks. “Oh my God, are you okay!?”

Dean blinks, and open-mouthed, nods.

“Oh God, he’s not breathing! Does anyone know CPR!?”

He shakes his head, scrunching his eyes shut. There’s a searing pain in his shoulder from where it hit pavement, the kind of pain that would usually have him screaming silently. “I-I know CPR.” he croaks.

“Thank God!” she says, and Dean shuffles on his hands and knees to the body in front of him. He’s moving too slowly, he can’t focus, but it’s just him, a woman in shock, and a man he’s been looking for all his life. And he’s not breathing.

There’s blood- more blood than he’s used to for things other than decapitation- and it’s still coming, his eyes are open and his face is uneven because part of it was bashed-... Dean tilts the head to the side. Brain falls out. He gags.

“I- there... I can’t...” The woman’s sobbing into her hand. He hears someone else on line with 911. His whole body tingles cold, and he only realizes he’s been holding tight to the man’s necktie when the paramedics pull him off.

Shock makes time blur; Dean knows that. He’s interviewed enough shock victims. He didn’t expect it to feel this slow, though.

“What’s your name?”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from saying Dean. He can’t remember what’s on this ID. “What’s his?”

The officer flips through his notepad; light glares from his glasses- headlights and flashlights and red and blue. It feels like it should have gotten dark hours ago, but he’s still surprised it is. “Victim’s... Castiel. Novak. Now, what’s yours?”

“ _Castiel._ ” Dean mumbles. “Castiel...”

 


	4. Ending C: Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plot twist twist that'll leave you screaming and sobbing, and a very unhappy ending. For Dean.

It’s a miracle he’s seeing him again: _here_ , in some middle-of-nowhere town different from the other middle-of-nowhere towns he’s seen him in before, on the way to California to see his little brother for the first time in years, to find his dad, he’s finding _him_ again. He’s been calling out since the other side of the street, the one-lane highway that runs straight through the town, “Hey!” -but the other doesn’t register. He _has_ to know his name. He dodges a car on the way across, and almost trips on the curb.

Dean sprints down the sidewalk, takes the same turn, but he’s not there. The alley’s empty. He races to the other end, dead, and paces back. “What the hell...?” he mumbles. It’s like he vanished into thin air.

Who knows. Maybe this thing with his Dad missing has him more frazzled than he thinks, and he’s making up the guy that’s saved his ass twice before. It’s stupid. He’s got to get to Cali.

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Bobby thinks he’s lost his mind; Dean knows he has. He’s already lost his father, and now his brother’s dead, by some demon cultist? No. No, no, no. It’s not happening, it can’t be happening. It’s not real. There has to be something he can do, anything, he’d do anything for Sammy...

That’s what finds him at the crossroads. It’s chilly; he doesn’t notice. Kneeling in the dirt grinds mud into his clothes, but there’s already mud from holding his brother in the rain.

He doesn’t know the name on the ID he puts in the box he buries. He won’t need them, if this doesn’t _work_ \- if this doesn’t work... It has to work. He doesn’t know what to do otherwise.

He’s getting nervous, no one’s appeared yet, maybe he should have expected this when you exorcise demons for a living. He’s crying still, harder at the dread of Hunting alone. He can’t do it.

“Hello, Dean.”

He chokes, and the fog in the air sticks to his skin. It can’t be.

“My name is Castiel.” continues the voice, and he knows it all too well, and it makes all too much sense. All of it.

He knows his name, at long last. He wishes he didn’t.

 


End file.
